


All Things Past

by Snowmane



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Introspection, Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowmane/pseuds/Snowmane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small drabble about my two favourite elven rogues contemplating their past together. Inspired by a quote from Catherynne M. Valente.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> While everyone jumped the Inquisition fanwagon, my laptop still is too old to play it. Additionally, my flats heating system crashed this weekend and still isn't working. So have something nice and warm and fluffy before my fingers freeze off ;)

> **“Everyone has their invisible cloak of all things past. Some shimmer and some float. Some cut all the way down to the bone and farther still."** \- The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland and Cut the Moon in Two by Catherynne M. Valente

 

Antiva city always has been a diva. She likes her face skilfully painted and her body all dressed up, with brightly coloured houses and mosaic floors. She likes to sing and dance under the moonlight, illuminated by hundreds of lanterns swinging in the nightly breeze which comes from the ocean and brings relief from the summer heat and the clean, crisp smell of salt and open waters. She enjoys parades and good food, especially fruit: Pomegranates, oranges, peaches, melons and many more, picked by a hundred hands in the orchards surrounding the city walls, brought in freshly in the morning and sold on every square and in every corner. Without her silks and jewels, without her finely crafted leather and sweet perfume, she would not be herself. But like any woman who is worth his time she knows that beauty alone becomes stale after a while. So she dons her armour and her weapons from time to time. Mixes poison between the scented oils and sweet summer vines, replaces the pompous balls with the dance of blades in dark alleyways. Whispers threats and deceits in the same sugared voice she uses in her compliments and vows of eternal love. Beauty needs cunning and a dash of danger to seduce a Crow.  
And like any true diva she likes to sleep in until late in the afternoon. While the heat is turning the cobblestones into searing pain for everybody walking bare-footed, while the air gets so thick only the nobles in their sea-side villas can go about their business without working up a sweat, during this time the whole city turns in for a well-deserved nap. In the evening women will throw open the shutters of their windows, peddlers will steer their wagons through the maze of small streets – _Fish, freshly caught! Garlic, the best you ever had! Want a shawl for your sweetheart, Messer? Have a look at these colours, she will love it!_ \- and everyone will be out, going somewhere to see a friend, buy food, tend to business or just walk around enjoying the fresh air.  
But right now, as the hottest hour of the day draws near Zevran finds the streets empty of anything but stray cats dozing in the shadows. He can feel the heated stones even through the thick soles of his boots as he sweeps down a broad street. The next alley is shaded by the houses and although the air is thicker here, without the burning sun it’s almost bearable. Grinning he clutches his little treasure to his chest, hurrying over small bridges and across empty squares until he halts in front of a worn-down house near a saddler’s shop. The front door is unlocked, but he is not as daft as to try using it. After all, there are several poison traps waiting behind it, never mentioning what his love has thought of in her sleepless nights. And so he walks around it until he comes to a small side entrance, the colour of the door faded with time and the poor thing hanging a bit lop-sided in its hinges. “I’m going to fix that”, he says to himself the hundredth time as he enters and pulls the door closed behind him with a heart-rending creak.  
Inside the house it’s cooler and he takes a second to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. “I’m back” he announces to no-one in particular before climbing the steps to the upper rooms. On his way he passes Troll, the giant Marbari lying in his favourite spot right under the stairs. The stones there are always the coldest place in the whole house and still he can see the greying hound panting as he wags his stumpy tail as a welcome. A brave warrior or not, he is now well past his best years and obviously too exhausted from the heat to stand up and greet him properly. Zevran takes a mental note on that, but is secretly happy to make it to the bedroom without being covered in slobber and dog hair.  
In front of the door he stops for a second, righting his shirt and smoothing his hair back before knocking on the weathered wood. Short, long, long, short, double. Another secret password, another protective measure against whoever seeking to threaten their lives. From the inside comes a small humming sound and so he enters, the grin back on his face. He had planned to make a fuss about his finding, maybe demanding a kiss or two as a reward beforehand but once again Lyna manages to get him off kilter.  
She sits in the middle of the room, her favourite set of leathers in her lap and a needle in her right hand. String, beeswax, leather soap and dubbin are littered in a semi-circle around her, a lonely dagger lying only a few feet away from where he stands. But – and this is where he starts chuckling – the best thing is her clothing. Or better, the lack of it. In a trail from the drawer to her current position lay her chaps, her favourite brown vest, a linen blouse, her belt and the green neckerchief she likes to wear around her neck to protect it from the sun. This left the Dalish with nothing but her breast band and dark shorts.  
“Let me guess – after the first minutes of mending leatherwork in the middle of the hottest day since weeks you realized it’s too warm for working?”  
She looks up, the sewing needle pointed towards him like a knife. “There is no such thing as wrong weather. There is just unsuitable clothing”, she answers with a challenging expression on her face.  
“Well, it looks like you decided no clothes are the most fitting for the task? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled by your decision.”  
“You’re the worst, Zevran Arainai, and you know it.”  
He laughs at that and drops his satchel onto the bed. With a relieved sigh he pulls off the boots and unbuckles the light layer of armour he always wears when leaving the house. Lyna’s attention is focused on the ripped straps and holes of her corselet again and so he allows himself a minute to just sit and watch her.  
Her hair falls down her back in a thick braid, small pearls flashing between the dark strands. When they met so long ago, it had been short, not even reaching her shoulders. She has grown it back to its old length, or at least she told him so. Lyna cut it when she was forced to leave the Sabrae and he only met her after she had already become a Grey Warden. He remembers their first nights sharing a blanket, when he had buried his face in the way too short hair and tried to image he was still holding Rinna in his arms. Now her hair was just as long as his lost love’s has been, but he did not bother anymore. Rinna still has a place in his heart, but Lyna _is_ his heart, his life, everything he ever wanted condensed down to one petite but fierce Dalish elf. So he shakes the old pain away for another time.  
So unlike Rinna she manages to keep her skin the same pearly white she had in Ferelden. Or maybe it just doesn’t know how to become tanned to withstand the burning sun of her new home. The first months had been a series of sunburns and trying out every imaginable ointment against it. A year had passed and she had given up on it, from then on making sure to cover her arms and shoulders when leaving the house during daytime. Good thing they were mostly working at night anyways.  
Between the pale skin and dark hair curl the lines of her tattoos. Red as blood where her Keeper carved the vallaslin into her face and another clan member continued the design on her upper body. A warm cinnamon tone where he took up their work, filling the blanks of an artwork left unfinished by the Blight, winding and weaving between the other lines here and there. Some are sacred to her, some to the Crow. There are Dalish designs and symbols for a lot of things but not for everything and so they invented new ones together. A Blight wolf hidden between her shoulder blades, a crow stretching its wings right under her heart. They vanish in the greater design, only visible for the knowing eye, outlining muscle and bone and appearing to dance whenever she moves. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of his work.  
But criss-crossing it are all the scars a life like theirs brought with it. Small silver lines from scratches long past, angry red spots on her knees and elbows from skin being scraped open too many times. Two are from his own blades, his failed attempt in ending her life and he hates himself for them until today. The biggest of them all is crossing her abdomen, starting in the middle of her chest now covered by the breast band. She was lucky to survive killing an Arch demon with just a few scars and the lasting pain of a thoroughly smashed ankle pieced back together by magic alone. But oh, how she hates them! The bite marks of wolves, bears, dragonlings and any other creature do not bother her, every trace left by an enemy blade is a reminder of why she should not engage in close combat with a bow. But the parts of skin marred by Darkspawn and the fallen dragon god? He does not know how many times he caught her staring at them with disgust. But Zevran knows well how often he kissed them, every single one, every inch of them until she stopped trying to hide them. Yes, he wishes she could walk though her life without scars but they did not make her any less beautiful in his eyes. Somewhere between his kisses and trying to count their combined scars and bruises she had surrendered and accepted them as just another part of her life she could not change. There is so little she can. A hunter, a Dalish, Commander of the Grey, Hero of the Fifth Blight, Arlessa of Amaranthine, friend of the Arishok, the Wolf between Crows – half the time the title meant nothing but obligations and even more bounds for her. Lyna is a free spirit but she knows too well that her freedoms ends wherever someone else needs her help. He still likes the one with the wolf, though. His own invention, carefully spread between a few apprentice Crows and soon whispered in half the cells. There is nothing like a horrible reputation to keep your foes at bay.  
"I would say you are trying to undress me with your eyes alone, Zev, but as I am already half-naked I must assume you are trying to stare a hole in my back.”  
Her quip snaps him out of his thoughts and he can feel his heart beating a little faster at her unrestrained laughter. Lyna has pushed the leathers away from her lap and sits cross-legged on the floor, facing him.  
“Not really. I was thinking about the past.”  
“There’s a lot of past to think about. Which part are we talking about exactly?”  
“Every part where I had the pleasure of seeing you half-naked and covered in sweat?”  
“Watch it, Crow!” she waves her finger at him but her threat lacks any graveness as her amber eyes glow with more silent laughter. He had never guessed she likes to laugh this much in the beginning. Likes to dance and sing under the stars. Wear flowers in her hair and whisper _I love you_ into his ear all night. This Lyna has little in common with the tight-lipped, aggressive hunter he met years ago in Ferelden. She still fights with a silent snarl on her face and Maker forbid if anyone ever crossed her and came out of it without a broken nose. They have spilled so much blood together, during the Blight and in his hunt for the Crows. In hiding from the Seekers, in finding a cure to her Calling. But in their little private moments there is no space for fighting and deceit, only warmth and the comforting feeling of coming _home_.  
Home, that is his cue. With a mischievous smile he grabs the satchel where it lays on the bed beside him and weaves it around in front of her.  
“Guess what I found today.”  
“Dates?” She actually sounds excited at the thought of it. Five years in Antiva and this woman still cherishes fruit like they are worth their weight in gold.  
“No, not yet. Better.”  
“Your missing dagger?”  
“Sadly not. I’ll give you a clue: It’s another piece of the past.”  
“If this is a dead Hurlock’s head or something, I will set it on fire.”  
“You’re no mage.”  
“I don’t need magic to burn stuff, as you know already.”  
"Yes, I remember your brilliant idea of speeding up the cooking last week.” She is silent at this, biting her lip as she pretends to be sorry for burning his evening snack.  
“Come here, I’ll show you, Lyna. I met a Dalish merchant today.”  
This perks her curiosity. Within a heartbeat she sits behind him on the bed, her hands on his upper arms and perking over his shoulder.  
“Did he have any news?”  
“Yes, but we will need to double-check some of it. There was a lot about the Grey Warden’s I did not like at all.”  
“Usual round tonight?”  
“Yes, better now than later. But first…” He pulls the item out of the satchel, pleased to hear her gasp as she sees the small statue of a Halla standing on its back legs and shaking its horned head at an unknown foe.  
“Oh, it’s beautiful! Look at all the details, like a real one…” He hands her the statuette, turning around and gently pulling her in his arms. She holds the statue cradled like a child, one tentative finger running over the stags back, then poking at the antlers.  
“Thank you so much, Zevran.”  
“A pleasure. I know how much you miss your clan.”  
“It’s ten years now…”  
“I know.”  
“Exactly today.”  
“I know.”  
_“Ma’arlath, ma vhenan.”_  
He knows her long enough to know what this means and presses a kiss on the top of her head before burying his face in her neck. To his surprise the smell of her is not quite as… pleasant, as he expected it.  
“Lyna?”  
“Yes?”  
“You should take a bath. Now.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pendant part to the first chapter. Sorry it took me so long but I spent most of the summer on an internship and wasn't able to access my laptop or the internet.  
> Hope you enjoy.

Even on her best days Antiva city is a whore. Behind the brightly coloured row of houses she hides courtyards filled with dust and withered plants. Under the paint the walls are slowly crumbling down, the cobblestones cracked by the summer heat and the mosaics missing more than just a few stones. She is slowly aging, her beauty fading into deep creases and grey hair. The red paint is not enough to hide her thinning lips, the bright eye shadow not enough to cover the steel in her eyes. Her children are poor, running through narrow streets in nothing but rags and bare feet. Their mothers watch them come and go, too tired from working all night and tending to the household all day. The men are dark-skinned from the sun, their hands rough, and their eyes glancing wearily into the shadowed alleyways.  
No, there is no love for this city within her heart. Years ago she had entered it as a hunter and this set of mind stayed with her during the whole time. She forgot how to walk for the sake of prowling, forgot the mosaic floors in favour of wild chases over the flat rooftops. Ventured outside the city walls to find blood that was not blood, brothers and sister who did not speak her language and rather reached for the knife in their boots than the hand offered by a stranger. But she did not survive so long by being prim and proper and so she had pounced instead of backing away, had bitten and clawed until the foreign clan accepted her into their ranks. The language had been the biggest problem, her tongue not quite made for these sounds as fluid and quick as water rushing towards the sea. But in order to hunt with the pack she needed to learn how to howl like them. Only then, when she knew what to say and how to say it she had made her way back into the city. Had offended passers-by with her bare feet, her long dark hair flying in the evening breeze. A woman shouldn’t wear armour or weapons, ha! If you can make a Qunari see you as a warrior and a female at the same time, a disgusted Antivan noble is a mere inconvenience.  
And so she had started her hunt again, years after first setting a foot into the city. Had kept her nose high up in the air to smell for smoke and follow the trail. When she finally found him, he was being ambushed. Her heart getting the better of her she had rushed in only to end up against a wall, his blade biting into the unprotected skin of her throat. There must have been words hissed at each other, knives dancing as he tried to get rid of the last remaining witness and her trying not to hurt him too much while defending her life. She is sure they both landed a few blows and from the bruises they discovered the day after neither of them had been above kicking shins and elbowing rips. But somehow between the rush of blood and adrenaline, between his name on her lips and his knife clattering to the ground they both lost track of events.  
It was only when dawn finally came, when she rested her head against his chest and listened for a heart beating with resilience that they realized they had found each other again. Too tired to do anything but rest, too awake to actually sleep, they had shared long hours of silence as the sun slowly wandered through his small room. A hundred questions went unspoken; a dozen vows never were said. His hands stopped at the scar at the crook of her arm and she simply shook her head. Her finger tipped against the badly healed skin where there once was the pointed tip of his right ear and he only gave a sad smile. _Later_ , his eyes had said and she wordlessly had curled up in his shadow. _Later_ , her hands had replied as she slid the poisoned dagger under his pillow. And when he buried his face in her hair they both forgot all the lonely nights and miles walked with nothing but a memory to keep them company.

She woke up to an empty bed this morning, the sheets crumpled from where he had slept. Lyna did not worry about it, he had the habit of sneaking in and out of the house like a stray cat while she always tried to sleep away most of the days heat. So she had stretched and made breakfast, washed her hands and started with the long-overdue task of mending their armour and leathers. She could always find solace in mending things, the strange magic of making something whole again. If she could not find sleep, if her nightmares kept her awake or the calling was too strong, she would think of traps, of weapons and tactics. But during the day she would mend and fix, make dinner and mix potions. There was always an encounter waiting around the corner, be it an old friend or a new enemy. They were prepared, always prepared. Zevran loved his city, enjoyed their little home, and from his joy she could be happy, too. But her heart was a Dalish one, always running, always on the move. In some nights the wind would knock on her window, the streets calling her name. Come, child of the Dales, come and wander with us! Deep down she knew the day would come when she would leave their small home behind, when she would part with everything that did not fit into a bagpack, when she would walk out of the city gates never to return again. But if the Creators had mercy, she would not go alone this time.  
The knock on the door makes her smile. She hums her answer as she turns the corselet in her lap and threads the needle again. When he enters his laughter fills the room and all thoughts about leaving are blown aside. Although she plays along for a while she cannot keep herself concentrated on her work. This laugh is not a fake chuckling, his smile genuine and not the mechanic grin he wore as they first met. Somewhere between a soggy road in Ferelden and this sun-flooded Antivan house she had found the real Zevran and right now this very man was kicking off his boot and slumping on the bed like a sack of wheat. She smiled at his relieved sigh as he peeled his armour of, his hair sticking to his sweat-covered neck. Putting the corselet away for later she watched him, familiar features glowing in the bright sunlight filtering in through the windows.  
The years had passed, leaving their mark on both of them. The way he preferred his right hand over his left because his fingers never recovered fully from being broken so often. How his one incisor was chipped ever since that fight in Llomerryn. How he had fussed the first time she discovered a grey hair on his pillow. The laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, the wrinkle between his brows, how could she love him any less? There were moments like this when simply hearing him laugh would make her feel like a swooning girl again, when one sentence would turn the day around. Their life was dangerous, the Crows always waiting for a moment to get rid of them both, too many friends already gone, too many enemies still alive. Her calling, the bounty on his head. Sometimes it felt as if the Dread Wolf was following her every step, breathing down her neck in a silent promise. But they learned to life with it, learned how to take every day as if it was the last. To use secret passwords and hidden traps, to sleep with a dagger under their pillow and some poison in the spice shelf, just to make sure. She owned more armour than dresses, he had more knifes than socks.  
Still, from time to time they would go out for dinner, dressed in their best clothes. Zevran would drink too much wine, she would eat too much sweet cakes and then they would decide to do something overly romantic. Swim in the sea at night, climb a roof to watch the stars, follow the sound of music to an open market square and dance all night. She had learned to love the Antivan dances, swifter and more passionate than anything Ferelden would come up with. The morning after she would praise the Creators for keeping two inebriated fools safe while he would curse the Maker for the creation of hangovers. Two strong teas and a breakfast later they would roam the streets again, fulfilling his contracts and keeping their eyes and ears open for any information on the Grey Wardens. If her Keeper had told her she would end up like this, she would surely have laughed at the absurdity.  
But here she was, climbing onto the bed behind him, curious about what he was carrying in the satchel all along. The halla statue almost made her cry, if because of joy or pain she wasn’t sure. Instead she threw her arms around him, the piece of carved wood safely put aside. Where to put it? The kitchen maybe? Too many chances of getting it full of olive oil and flour. Their rooftop-garden? No, it might be stolen too easily up there. The entrance maybe…  
“Lyna?” His voice rumbles against her shoulder pressed against his sternum.  
“Yes?”  
“You should take a bath. Now.”  
She slaps his shoulder for this but he catches her fingers with a trained motion.  
“It’s not like you smell like a spring morning, either.”  
“Ah, I see. Only one way to solve the problem…” His smile is pure mischief and she cannot help but laugh.  
“Zevran, you’re impossible.”  
“You already said that.”  
She wriggles out of his grasp to kiss him, effectively stopping him from any more remarks about her state of nudity that surely would have followed. His reaction is passionate as always, teeth catching her lower lip, fingers already fumbling with her breast bindings. Lyna smiles against his hungry kisses, gently putting the statue away for later. _I love you_ , his fingers write on her pale shoulders. _Always and forever_ , her breath whispers on his skin. Honey-brown eyes find striking amber, the smile shared between them only for them and no-one else.  
_Always and forever, my heart._


End file.
